


i lead you blindly

by slytherintbh



Series: dredged [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Abusive Behaviours, Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Javert Lives, M/M, Post-Seine, Starvation, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-21 22:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12466824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherintbh/pseuds/slytherintbh
Summary: Starving is not what Valjean deserves. Javert cannot bear to see it any longer. Perhaps Valjean's suffering is appropriate only when it is caused by Javert, who already owes more than he can repay. Self-inflicted illness seems an insult after so much injury.





	i lead you blindly

**Author's Note:**

> follows on from 'i am tired of my grief' in a vaguely linear fashion.

Clutching at his plate, Javert glares at the figure sitting across from the fire. Valjean is bundled in blankets; he stares into the flames with no guide to his gaze. This is the third night.

“You are starving yourself,” Javert says, accusingly.

He has no right to make such claims. Javert knows this. It is quite possible that Javert has no rights at _all_ – he is considered dead by the state and everyone (an admittedly small number of people) who once knew him. Certainly the law has nothing to say of him anymore. Add to that the fact that Javert has been living on another man’s bread and charity for a year… Well. He has no right to say these things.

Either way, Valjean does not reply. His brow furrows and he sinks further into the warmth of his nest, shutting his eyes against Javert’s words.

Guilt swallows Javert’s heart and he busies himself with cleaning what he has used. Once, he would rather have taken this plate, this cutlery, and thrown it at Valjean’s head in an approximation of revenge. That was some months past. Shame still rocks him at the memory, at the way he would snarl and swear and snipe, Valjean failing to retaliate, only ever standing with a mournful expression and dodging the blows that were rained down upon his head. Javert would exhaust himself with the bitterness that filled him to the brim and turned away to loosen it – it was the easiest way to make himself weep. That would have been the end of the evening. Javert would disappear into his room and sob until he could sleep dreamlessly, or else he would say terrible, bitter things and make sure that Valjean could hear him through the floor.

 _Once._ He is past that now. His debt is made so much greater in light of his abuse, but Javert has given up on ever repaying Valjean for his kindnesses. Javert almost feels indebted for the saving of his life, although that will take longer yet, because the desire to die will not flee him.

There are improvements. It was he who suggested that Valjean move a mattress into his room and sleep there, rather than the sofa. Between the ‘arguments’ and the sleeplessness of caring for the suicidal, Valjean had looked exhausted to the point of falling apart. Now he is less tired on Javert’s account. The rings around his eyes are less liberal – or they had been, for a while. Javert tidies away the last of the food, save for a hunk of bread, which drips crumbs all over the flooring.

He stalks over to Valjean. “Eat,” he demands, and grits his teeth as unfocused eyes take in the bread thrust before them.

“I am not hungry.”

“ _Eat_.” Javert’s hand is shaking. “Please, Valjean, you are wasting away. Please.”

The words come out in a pained timbre. For the first time in days, Valjean looks at Javert as though he actually sees him, and takes the bread.

Javert stumbles away. An awful thing comes to his mind, and he lets it free. “Do not leave me out,” he says, cryptically.

It takes a moment, but Valjean answers. “What do you mean, Javert?”

“It is cruel of you.” Javert dares to glance over, and Valjean looks rightly bewildered. “It is cruel to save a man’s life only to try to die yourself. Truly, if you mean to starve to death, at least allow me to starve with you. My body is so worn it could catch you up.”

A small gasp escapes Valjean, a wounded cry. This was a horrible thing. Javert has not spoken outright about dying in two months, evidenced by the marks on the calendar that Valjean thinks he has hidden well. Perhaps it has been two months since Valjean stopped eating properly, winding down the spool of his life just as Javert’s is beginning to wind up again. Why must Javert always resort to hellfire when it comes to Valjean? In truth, he is concerned. In practice, he spouts fire as though it will heal the rifts between and within them rather than burning them both to the ground.

Years are piling on in the space of days. An old man huddles by the fire and avoids Javert’s stare.

When Valjean cries it is a cracked, broken wheeze. It is nothing like the silent, heavy weeping that he broke into whenever they attempted to navigate Javert’s damaged mind, throwing Javert into near unbearable embarrassment.

He goes to Valjean. He takes the man’s hand, the one not occupied by a meagre meal, and he holds it. Ignores how much strength it has lost. “I apologise,” he whispers, kneeling. “It seems I cannot be anything other than a brute, even in my concerns.”

Javert rests his head in Valjean’s lap. He feels like a loyal dog, a nervous hound which whimpers at its master’s feet when the master grows elderly and weary. When the owner dies, the dog is never far behind.

He closes his eyes. The fire is unbearably hot through the thin fabric of his shirt. Had he seen this a year ago, his past self would have been disgusted. Confused. All the more reason to jump. Has it truly been that long? The length of his hair seems to conform to it. It is in desperate need of a trim, the black-grey tresses curling down his back and tickling the floor.

Valjean rests a hand on Javert’s shoulder. Javert looks up. The bread is gone, and while Valjean’s face is reddened and stained with tears, he is smiling softly.

“I did not know you cared,” he admits roughly.

“I care only about you,” Javert replies. “I have nothing else to care for. I have shown it… poorly.” He is still holding Valjean’s hand. He moves it to his mouth and kisses it. “You are my whole world.”

Paris may as well not exist. One could tell Javert that the front door opens into nothing, and he would almost readily believe them. Nowhere and nothing matters beyond the walls of this house, the house that he forgets the address of, although he is sure that Valjean told him at the barricades. Only Cosette brings much of the outside, and she has not visited in –

Oh.

“What has he done?” Javert asks brusquely, ignoring the way that Valjean is looking at his hand as though it were holy. “That fool, the boy, what has he done?”

He stands. This is not a discussion to be had when curled up like a dog. 

“Nothing.” Valjean appears discomfited, answer giving away the truth of the matter. So it is about Pontmercy. “He has the right to – he is her husband, it is well that he –“

“You are her father.”

“Not by blood.”

“What has he done?”

Valjean’s gaunt appearance takes on another level of unhappiness. “I told him the truth. I went to their home and spoke to him. He thinks it better I do not see her. He still does not know that you live, and I admit I allowed him to labour under the assumption that I shot you, but –“

“Cosette comes here.” _Came here_ , Javert internally corrects, and scowls. “How could he possibly not know?”

“I ordered her not to inform him of our arrangement. Besides, I doubt that Marius would ever wish to bring up what happened to you at the barricade with her. You were so angry and unwell at the time, it seemed…” Valjean pauses. “You would not want to be seen by another person in such a state.”

“I do not give a damn in hell how anyone sees me,” Javert spits. “Every man I held in esteem believes me to have killed myself. As I would have done, if not for your intervention. My memory is tarnished beyond repair – and how right that is! – what could the opinion of that wet lawyer do to me? That fool.” Shuffling his locks behind his ears, Javert begins to pace, aware of the eyes that follow him blandly in his motions. “Were I not attired thus I would find him and give him a piece of my mind.”

“Anything but that,” Valjean chuckles, the first happy sound he has offered in a long, long time. Yes, Valjean knows exactly how horrific Javert’s tempers are.

“It perplexes me, though. You saved his life, surely that must count for…”

Javert stills.

“You have not told him.”

Valjean does not reply. His gaze is downcast.

“You let him believe that you killed me. No doubt you told him you were a convict. You let him keep Cosette from you, so that you can – what, wither away without anyone seeing? _I see_ , Valjean, although I suppose I do not count because I have no pride left to judge you with.” Suddenly, a blazing anger overrides Javert in a painfully familiar fashion. He grabs Valjean by the shirt and stands nose to nose with him. All the vitality in the convict’s face has gone. “ _You damned hypocrite._ ” Javert is more hellhound than man. “As though this is any better than _drowning.”_

“It is… different, I am not –“ Valjean begins, but the whistle in his breath is too much to bear. Javert backs away and travels towards the door.

“You are too weak,” he hisses. “I could be gone before you make it down the street. Wouldn’t that be an interesting headline in _Le Moniteur?”_ Javert is grinning. “ _Drowned inspector found one year after believed passing_. Quite the mystery.”

There is a long silence.

“Even I couldn’t solve it,” Javert says, although the words have deflated, shifted from sharp to pathetic.

Valjean is breathing heavily. If he has a reply it will not come. They wait in silence for a while, and Javert’s fury dissipates with every racking breath that rises from the chair. Javert is terrified. If Valjean continues like this, he will die.

“Why did you save me,” Javert asks, finally. “Why bother? If this was your plan all along, you may as well have let me drown.”

 _I will not live without you,_ that much is implied.

“This was not planned,” Valjean stutters. “It is merely what I deserve.”

“So the way I treated you,” Javert says, slowly. “Was that what you deserved? Is that what you believe? Was I just a penance for you?”

“N-no, of course not, I wanted to _help you_ , Javert.” Valjean is climbing out of his chair and Javert has not seen the way his body has fallen away, the strength of Jean Valjean slipping out of his grasp with every skipped meal or meagre mouthful.

 _You were a punishment_ , Javert realises. _You were, you were, maybe he loathes you even still._

His threat about the Seine is dangerously close to being realised. Javert is in agony. If the saintly figure of Jean Valjean cannot love him, then what is the point? He is being kept alive for pure _sport._ It is too great an indignity for him to fathom. His heart is hammering against his chest as it does when he is taken with fever, his breathing is short and sharp, everything is wrong.

“Javert.”

In his panic, he hasn’t noticed Valjean coming near. Arms threaten to envelop him. Javert tries to turn away, only to find he is against a wall, so he slides down it and becomes foetal. To his misery, Valjean follows him, kneeling on the hard flooring. Beholding the man’s emaciated frame makes Javert nauseous.

A soft whimpering settles in the back of his throat. Valjean leans forward and takes him into his arms, wide arms that have thinned and yet still are thrumming with life, unbeaten. It is warm. Javert accepts the touch, threading his own arms around Valjean and holding him down, tethering him to life. Comfort suffuses him in an alien rush. “Please, you must eat,” he begs, like the dog he is, and presses a small and clumsy kiss to Valjean’s chapped lips. It is tiny and chaste and meaningless.

“I will,” Valjean promises. “I will.”

“Good.” It is good.

“And I swear,” Valjean says thinly. “I did not save you to flagellate myself. I wanted you to be well, even if it meant a little suffering.”

“A little.”

“Or a lot. It is worth it, to have you alive.”

It is said convincingly enough. “You will go and talk to Cosette,” Javert demands. “You will talk to Marius, and if you will not go alone then I shall accompany you. Coat or no.”

They pull apart, and Javert wants to chase the warmth that has spread between them. “I think I would like that,” Valjean admits. “Although, you are quite right, we are neither of us presentable these days.”

“Better than I was, considering you will allow me a razor.” Stubble is not something Javert can abide, nor could he do so when he was at his very worst. “Tonight, you must cut my hair. Not before you have a proper meal. There is plenty of broth left, although it may take a few minutes to heat. Yes, that is well. You will eat, then you will cut my hair, and tomorrow we must find a coat that I can wear which is not absurdly large at the shoulder.”

Smiles bring out the best of Valjean, Javert realises. His weary but honest smile removes some of the years that hunger has piled on. “I am sorry,” he says.

“Do not apologise. I still owe you more than I can repay. An apology can only add to that debt.”

“Your debt is not so great –“

“I treated you like a brute might treat a battered housewife.” Javert shakes his head. “And all for the sin of saving my life. Cosette may just exact the revenge you refuse to indulge in.”

Disbelieving, or perhaps having no intention of giving the whole truth, Valjean snorts. “Give me a few days to regain some health, at least.”

For a second, Javert considers refusing – let Cosette see what her father will do to himself when he is allowed to pile on all of the suffering he believes he deserves! Yet he cannot. Were it in his power to refuse then maybe, but it is not, so he nods once and struggles to his feet, extending a hand. Valjean takes it.

*

“A week was perhaps not long enough.”

Rueful as the words are, there is no remedying them. They stand outside the door. Valjean’s frustrating hesitation is understandable, given that he appears still so ghostly and unwell, washed and preened in the general direction of presentable, cravat askew. Javert thinks it is ridiculousness. _Javert_ , for all his effort, is impossible to pull back into his old self. His hair has been cut to a sensible length, he has shaved his whiskers mostly into place, his borrowed coat is thankfully average in its size. Despite this, there is a change to him that no amount of clothing can remedy. A year of misery has carved his face permanently. The shadows beneath his eyes care not for sleep. Nor does the haunted light behind them.

“I am not waiting for this, Valjean.” Javert shuffles into the pleasantly high collar of his coat. “Enough of your misery.”

They both eye the knocker.

“Go on then,” Javert barks, suddenly nervous. “Before someone recognises me.”

Expression wry, Valjean knocks. The door opens, an unfamiliar servant appearing before them, and Javert watches as his companion breathes out a shaky sigh.

 


End file.
